Daughter Knows Best
by Gooblygoo
Summary: Greg Lestrade is forced to introduce his daughter Lorna to Sherlock. Lorna reads it right away: Sherlock is so into her father.  Sherstrade, angst & fluff, nothing explicit
1. Lorna deduced it

Daughter knows best.

"My daughter," DI Lestrade introduced his teenage girl. Bring-your-child-to-work day was unfortunately timed with a visit from Sherlock to the Yard. He fiercely hoped Sherlock would not 'deduce' his little girl. Sherlock looked up where he was lounging, his limbs sliding back to more socially acceptable positions, and looked at his girl without much interest.

"The name is Holmes."

"I know," the girl answered aggressively, "you're the one who keeps dad away from home."

Lestrade choked on thin air. "Lorna!" he gasped.

Anderson seemed to appear in the doorway especially for the occasion, "She's right you know."

Sherlock sneered at him then turned to gape at Greg's daughter, "Excellent deduction," his emotionless mask back in place, "And I'm sure your mother has put you up against me."

Lorna swallowed and hissed back quickly, "No, I made up that opinion entirely on my own, Mr. Holmes. My mother left a long time ago."

It was silent.

"Oh," Sherlock said, "Oh!"

Lestrade wished he could sink through the ground. The one thing he had managed to keep a secret from the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes. The one thing he had managed to keep away from the Yard when his life had fallen apart. The one thing in his life he might have managed the right way. And now his precious daughter had told on him and he could not even be angry. Lorna stepped to her father to put an arm around him.

"Oh," Sherlock now annoyed, "there's always something!"

"Well," Anderson said.

'She likes you - GL'

Sherlock received hours after he'd left Anderson hovering awkwardly by Lestrade, who was pinned to the ground, beet red and hissing through his teeth that he should get the hell out.

'I did deduce that as I was leaving SH'

'She likes that you're so forward. -GL'

'I thought so SH'

'She said you have a crush on me - GL'

Sherlock didn't answer that, he simply stared at his screen. Oh, this girl was _good_, rendering him speechless like this, for the second time in a day

"Dad," Lorna yelled out from behind her computer she heard her father pass her room in the corridor.

"Yes," came her father's tired voice, he leant in the doorway, slowly taking one arm out of his suit.

"What did he say, dad?" Lorna asked, twirling around to face her exhausted father.

"I haven't had the time, hunny. I don't have to time."

Lorna sighed, "If he keeps you away from me, he might as well be fucking you."

"Lorna!" Greg yelled, exasperated, "do you get to decide I should move on?"

Lestrade huffed, "How would you know?"

He dropped himself on the edge of his daughter's bed.

"Did you see how he aware he became of himself when you came in? It radiated /through/ you and I could sense it, that's how intense."

"Lor, I'm his _boss_."

"No, dad, you're not. You know that. Have you ever heard yourself speak of him?"

"Lor, this is not some fairy tale." "You used to tell me true love exists, dad," Lorna said, suddenly soft, as she hugged her knees."If it does, it's not with Sherlock."

'John asked whether you would bring your daughter over for tea. Mrs. Hudson made biscuits and cake. SH'

Greg picked up his phone during dinner, finding the message and his expression became one of confusion before he caught himself.

"Is it him?" Lorna asked, used to her father jumping up and leaving whenever his phone went off.

"Yes, we're going over for tea tomorrow," Greg answered pensively.

'We'll be there at 3, if there are no break-throughs - GL'

'Naturally, I will look forward to it. SH'

His daughter looked beautiful. Somehow, without a female influence, she'd learned how to dress fashionably, yet practically. She was the image of her mother, although she didn't realise.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door for them and let them in, ushering upstairs as she yelled to let the residents know their guests had arrived. Within seconds, John burst out the door and turned Lorna around.

"Hi, nice to meet you. I am taking you to Angelo's for lunch. Hi Lestrade, Sherlock's upstairs."

Greg was slightly giddy as he stepped into 221B and didn't know why. He'd never felt anything towards the consulting detective, had he? It was only because his girl had been so observant that he...- He was struck with how much his daughter resembled a more sociable Sherlock and chuckled softly.

"Lestrade," Sherlock's voice came from the couch.

"Sherlock," Greg answered as he took off his coat and stood next to the couch.

"I guess you want to talk," the man sighed. Greg gulped. Well then.

When Greg didn't answer for a few minutes, Sherlock twisted his body on the couch to look at him, his eyebrows raised delicately.

"Well?"Greg sighed and lowered himself onto the armrest by Sherlock's head.

"Your daughter is smart," the consulting detective broke the silence.

Greg smiled to himself, "She is. She was right then?" Sherlock twisted again, this time sitting up.

"She _deduced_ me," he answered, avoiding the question, twisting his hands.

"She was right." Greg said, looking down.

Greg observed Sherlock in the semi-darkness, waiting for him to return his gaze.

"How didn't I know?" Sherlock asked himself.

"Know what?" Greg responded, confused. Sherlock looked up, his eyes bright. "Not know what?"

"That you would reciprocate," Sherlock said. He gulped in air, realising what he'd said. He turned to Greg and reached up to pull him down. Greg slid from the armrest into Sherlock's arms. It might've been overly eager, but he couldn't care.

Sherlock Holmes was about to kiss him.

Greg breathed in loudly through his nose as Sherlock's lips connected to his. Oh, so he had been feeling something. He moved in, pushing one hand into the connection between Sherlock's neck and shoulder to get him to tilt his head, to deepen the kiss. But Sherlock didn't move, keeping his lips lightly closed and the tip of his tongue resting against Greg's. He was also the one to break the kiss, but his arms held onto the DI possessively.

"Greg," he gasped, "I'm sorry about Sophie."

Greg closed his eyes, his forehead against Sherlock.

"Could you not mention my ex right now," he said, exasperated. Of course Sherlock would do something to ruin is epiphany, to make him doubt only seconds after he'd found the truth.

Sherlock shivered lightly against him, "I'm so sorry."

"Stop, Sherlock. I don't want to -"

"She wasn't good for you, Greg, I saw you - I deduced you weren't happy. I did what was best for you," Sherlock's arms held him tighter as Greg became less able to breathe.

Greg felt Sherlock's expression shift against his.

"But then, at the Yard, I knew. You had such a strong mask, Greg, I admire your ability to act above anything. You may be a bad Inspector, but you know how to stay in your part. Greg, I did what was best for you, I did it for you. Not ..- Why didn't it work then?" Sherlock sneered at himself.

The DIs fists were clenched, one into his shirt on his back and the other around the side of his neck, nails digging into Sherlock's skin.

"How..-Sherlock!"

His thumb pushed against Sherlock's windpipe and he was dangerously tempted to keep it there, to push harder. How dare this genius confuse him. What gave him the right?

"Explain yourself," he had the push the words out, hoping his voice wouldn't quiver. How he wished he had a good mask now, "Sherlock, please. Please."

He wanted the man to tell him he was lying. That is had been a joke, that John was standing outside, giggling with his daughter. The daughter that the genius had hurt. His Lorna.

He didn't stop pushing. He didn't let go as he felt Sherlock shake violently beneath him, panicking silently.

At that point, the door opened and let in John and Lorna, awkwardly chatting.

"Angelo has food poisoning, he wasn't -" John saw the tableau before him, heard his roommate struggle for breath and it took him less than a second to react.

He dragged Lestrade off Sherlock, with surprising ease and let the DI collapse onto the floor.

"Dad, what the hell?" Lorna screamed.

"He! He- That man!"

Greg sat on the floor, having never felt like less of a man than now.

"That man took everything from us, Lorna. He broke us," he tried to explain.

"Get out," John dragged him up, "Get out, inspector." He was as confused as the teenager in the doorway was.

"No, Greg, I deduced that you'd be happier- That _she_'d be better off without," Sherlock tried to explain, gesturing vaguely at Lorna.

"Without what, her own daughter?" his voices an octave lower.

"Yes, - no, no, you could be with me and she..-"

"Tea, I'm making tea," John sighed when he was satisfied that Lestrade wouldn't lunge for Sherlock again. He looked at the pitiful heap of man on his floor and couldn't help but feel sorry. "Come help me in the kitchen."

Lorna followed him cautiously, giving a big eyed stare to her father before John closed the door between the two spaces.

"What was that?" she asked John.

"I don't know, Lorna. I get the feeling Sherlock's done something bad."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child. What did dad mean?" Lorna answered aggressively.

"I don't know. Tea, tea makes everything better," John sighed as he rubbed a hand across his face.

"Greg, I didn't ask her to go away," Sherlock said.

"What did you do, why did you break my life?" Greg couldn't help it, his lip quivered and he swallowed repeatedly to keep himself from tearing up. Why hadn't this man used his genius to woo him when he'd had the chance?

"I told her about how I felt. She laughed in my face. I- I suggested you felt the same, because I knew- I deduced"

"You deduced?" Greg cut him off. He used the word as though that would make what he did OK, like he was just breaking the law to get his criminals. Like he wasn't breaking people. "You deduced that I liked you and so you chased my wife, mother of my child, away? Are you insane?"

"For God's sake," Lorna sighed behind the kitchen door. "They're going around in circles."

John looked at the girl. Sound observation, he thought. "Nothing we can do," he answered, putting four mugs onto the counter to inspect them for poisonous stains.

"Greg, listen. I told her what I felt and that you wouldn't stay away if I told you. That I'd tell you. She took that and ran, she didn't fight for you. She spoke about you as though you were separated. She was ready to accept the end."

"I loved her."

"Past tense," Sherlock rushed to add, unable to keep a triumphant tone out of his voice.

"Yes, past tense. It was three years ago, Sherlock. She up and left me with a pre-teen."

Sherlock sat up slightly, learning towards the remains of this fascinating man on the floor and reached out with his hand.

"Please."

"Do you see what you've done. How it's wrong," Greg tried, eyeing the hand, contemplating taking it.

John opened the door, letting an impatient Lorna through to get to her father. She pulled him into a hug, a strangely motherly gesture for a girl that young, and looked over her shoulder to cast a neutral glance at Sherlock.

"Dad, she's left. It happened, it passed. We got over it, remember?" she murmured, her eyes locked to Sherlock's. "She could've fought for you, but she didn't."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Sherlock added, slowly, cued by a nod from Lorna.

"She left, dad, we're better for it. Maybe you can start - with Sherlock, I could see you -" her words failed quickly. Damn her limited vocabulary.

"I think what your eloquent daughter is trying to say is that what has passed has passed," John said softly, tempting Lorna out of the hug with a mug of steaming tea and putting another in Sherlock's hands, giving him a warning glare.

Greg looked up at Sherlock.

"But how can I -"

"Sit up," John instructed from the kitchen. Greg listened and stood up quickly. Lorna pointedly inhabited one of the chairs and John slid into the other one, leaving him no option but to sit next to Sherlock on the couch. He reached for the mug that was handed to him.

Sherlock cast a side way glance at Greg, most like a teenager would, and John smiled at his expression.

"Dad, you got over it. Whatever it was, you got over it, remember?"

Greg cleared his throat softly, took a sip of tea and took in a deep breath, "Sherlock, did you ask her to leave?"

"No," came a certain answer.

"Did you threaten her?"

"No."

"Geez, dad," Lorna sighed, "she was a bitch."

Stunned into silence, Greg turned his gaze to his daughter.

"She wasn't there, she worked a lot, like you, but didn't make time to be home. When there was a boy after me when I was eight she said I should try it. She cried when I laughed and perhaps even vice versa. Mum didn't like me."

"Oh, Lor," Greg made to get up, but Sherlock placed a careful have on his thigh, but above his knee.

"Mum wanted you for herself, you know. She thought you were screwing that Donovan woman."

Sherlock huffed out a restrained laugh and John chuckled with him lightly.

"I give you my permission, dad."

Greg's eyes were flashing across the room, from his larger-than-life daughter, to the calm John, to Sherlock, who looked back nervously. He looked at the door, contemplating storming out for a few seconds, until he felt Sherlock tighten the fingers on his leg. He wasn't going anywhere.

He looked back at the man, staring at him. He had been right. This felt alright and so wrong, because his wife - ex-wife - was someone he hadn't even know. He certainly couldn't remember a possessive version of Sophie. Apparently, he hadn't known her and this genius had seen right through it.

He melted against Sherlock, pushing his shoulder into the man's chest and dropping his head back.

He heard his daughter slurp her tea contently and John started up a conversation about his day with Sherlock, who traced a pattern down his arm.


	2. When left alone

A month had passed and John needed to get out of the flat and away from all the romance. He never thought the DI could make much room for Sherlock in his work- and daughter schedule and he had been proven wrong. The DI and his daughter were over at 221B more than they were not and Lorna had almost taken up a permanent base in Mrs. Hudson's extra room downstairs.

She had even plugged in a PlayStation to the TV and she and Lestrade would play enthusiastic games of Fifa on it. Sherlock would tolerate it, no, not only that. He would look along, give Lorna pointers and complain about the inaccuracies of the game. Greg would huff and laugh softly and Sherlock would lean forward to kiss him on the cheek and distract him. The very image of domesticity and John could throw up.

He had found Sherlock a lot more agreeable. He had a certain airiness around him, as though he didn't have a thing to fear anymore. Perhaps it was because he wasn't afraid of dying alone anymore, but then again, Sherlock didn't care for comfort. John didn't think he did.

"Lorna, how about dinner?" he asked as he came back from the clinic to find the girl at the kitchen table, doing her homework. "Sherlock not in?" he wondered out loud. He hadn't seen enough room on the table to place a mug on there, let alone an open book, a notebook, a phone and a series of pens.

"No," Lorna said as she looked up, "He's at the Yard. Said he'd be late. Asked you to get milk."

"Of course," John muttered. "So, dinner and a film? I thought your dad and Sherlock would want to flat for themselves for the evening. "

"Yea, that's fine," Lorna answered, closing her book. A month and a half ago she'd never had thought she'd be going out with her father's boyfriend's flatmate for dinner and a film on a Friday night. She hoped silently that none of her friends would see her, the gossip would be insufferable. They already thought she was strange enough. She sighed loudly as she got her things together.

"Alright?" John asked.

"Yes," Lorna answered, "let's go."

Sherlock would've jumped into the front door of 221 if Greg hadn't slipped in front of him to throw the keys into the door. Sherlock grappled at his shoulders, almost in a piggyback on top of him, trapping him between himself and the door. Greg didn't giggle, he really didn't. He turned the key and dragged Sherlock with him.

"I cannot believe Anderson didn't _see_ the pattern, he really is an ignorant idiot. You really should fire him," Sherlock mused, panting lightly as he was shrugged off. He leant back against the wall to watch Greg take off his coat.

"Lorna texted me. We've got the place for ourselves tonight," he said conversationally.

"I thought so. John was looking at the cinema schedule this morning," Sherlock answered, unwrapping his scarf from his neck.

"Hmm," Greg nodded as he made his way to the stairs, "I'm not firing Anderson. He's a good man."

Sherlock huffed but he all but skipped after Greg, up the steps to 221B. They walked into the living room, taking off their coats and suit jackets.

"Food?" Greg asked, still the guest.

"Ah. John might've left something in the fridge. He had left-overs last night," Sherlock said as he gestured at the fridge, as he picked up a laptop and dropped himself on his familiar place on the couch.

As Greg went to open the fridge, Sherlock interrupted him, "No, he took them to the clinic."

"Thanks, we'll get take-out," Greg murmured, pulling a bottle of cider from the fridge door, "Would John be OK with me taking this?"

"Yea, yea," Sherlock said, waving vaguely.

"Move over," Greg pushed at his shins as he tried to sit down next to him, "put the laptop away, Sher. You solved the case. Dimmock is making the arrests."

The consulting detective growled at the name, but closed the laptop and put it on the floor, before moving to sit up against Greg.

"We're home alone and I'm off duty, which means you are off duty."

Sherlock hummed, reading Greg within seconds and reached out to untie the DI's tie. He hadn't been alone with him in nearly a week, after a particularly interesting case had taken over their lives. They were exhausted, but Sherlock's post-case high was affecting Greg and he couldn't imagine going to sleep now. Not with Sherlock's mind racing like this.

The genius slid his hands down Greg's arms, the tie wrapped around one wrist, and reached for his hands before leaning forward. Greg let out an impatient sigh and closed to distance, touching the side of Sherlock's lips with his own.

"One month today," he whispered, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's left cheek. His tongue darted out to lick his suddenly dry lips and it licked Sherlock's face as well. The man shuddered.

"How sentimental," he murmured back.

"Simple celebration," Greg said, now connecting his lips properly and pushing forward, leading Sherlock onto his back. He reached forward, Sherlock's hands still entwined with his, until the hands were above Sherlock's head. Sherlock let out a content sigh and relaxed as he shifted his legs to accommodate the DI between them.

Sherlock stretched his back and arms, to pull him off balance. With the DI kneeling between his knees, unable to put weight on his hands, he wouldn't be able to do anything but fall forward onto Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you're not helping," Greg said between kisses, pulling his hand and body back slightly to regain balance.

"The point," Sherlock couldn't be bothered with a full sentence and instead tried to follow Greg up. He found his hands still retrained and grinned.

"You're not a very _good _man," Greg muttered softly as he pushed his nose into the genius's neck and inhaled deeply, letting go of Sherlock's hands to lean his own next to the man's head.

"You don't mind," Sherlock observed, circling his arms around Greg's waist. He placed one hand on his nape and tapped lightly. He continued tapping until Greg moved up to look at him.

"What?"

"You don't mind, do you?" the man grinned as he tensed his arms. He saw an alarmed look come and go on Greg's face before the man was pulled flush onto him, touching from groin to forehead, Sherlock's knees neatly framing the DI's hips.

"Sherlock," Greg huffed, unable to fight the possessive hug he had been pulled into. He laughed and struggled for air for a second before his lips found Sherlock's again and one hand touched his jaw line lightly. Their lips moved together calmly, languidly and Greg even dared to call it lovingly.

They'd only been together for a month, one single month that had turned the detective inspector's life around. It wasn't that he didn't think of Sophie every time Sherlock placed a tentative hand on his lower back or when he saw John lean over Lorna's shoulder to help her with some biology homework that he himself could never get a grasp of. He really didn't have to _time_ for Sherlock, but then neither did the man for him, so that was fine.

Out of the month they'd been together, only a few days had been spent without cases. The criminals of London always had the most perfect timing, pulling the mad man away from him just as he'd gotten him. No, he was never a man for timing.

But then Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He found Lorna fascinating and found it even better when John distracted her with some war tale or took her to Sarah's and left her there for a girl's night. He let Greg sleep in his bed while he was tapping away on his computer, but didn't distract him when he wanted to sleep at home on nights between duties.

Perhaps he wasn't going to die alone - well romantically alone - after all.

He felt Sherlock's hands trace the edge of his shoulder blades, the tips of his fingers joining in his spine before they travelled down to run pleasant circles into his lower back. He melted against the man, lips connected lightly and relaxed. He was suddenly overcome with exhaustion, but was unwilling to give in.

He gripped side the side of Sherlock's face a little tighter and pulled himself up slightly so he could tilt his face. The tips of Sherlock's fingers were now resting lightly on the beginning of the curve to his arse, but made no move to do anything but stay put there.

He heard a noise from the back of Sherlock's throat as he opened his lips a little, darting out his tongue before pulling it back quickly. Perhaps _Sherlock_ was actually relaxed and ready to go to sleep. Perhaps he just wanted a blanket for tonight. Not that the couch was a comfortable place to sleep, but he'd found the man asleep on there more than once in the years they'd known each other.

He was pulled out his contemplation by Sherlock's fingers twitching, he heard Sherlock pull in a hesitant breath.

"I'm here, Sherlock," Greg murmured before he reached back one hand to encourage the man to move his hands.

Sherlock didn't need to be encouraged. One hand flew back into Greg's hair and he pulled his lips back, the other was pushing into his lower back. There was no real hurry, although Sherlock obviously preferred this.

Greg let his hands slide to Sherlock's hips and the man stretched his legs in response. They were now touching from lips to toes and it was the most comfortable position Greg had ever been in.

Sherlock clearly didn't agree.

He pulled his face away from the DI's and gasped for breath.

"I thought breathing was boring," the DI teased before he could hold himself back. He laughed as Sherlock huffed with an insulted tone. Only Sherlock could pull off such a sound.

"It may be boring, but it is nonetheless essential to my continuing existence. Something you seem to be rather fond of," he retorted.

"I thought I heard you boys up here," Mrs. Hudson chirped as she entered without knocking. Immediately Greg flew up, grabbing a pillow to hug. Maybe they could pretend they'd been having a serious conversation. Sherlock pulled his knees up to give his partner space to sit and swept his laptop from the ground, planting it firming in front of his groin.

Well, Greg thought with a smirk as he saw Sherlock's obvious frustration.

"I thought I'd bring up some dinner," Mrs. Hudson continued, unaware of what she was disturbing, "Are Dr. Watson and your lovely daughter not in?"

"N-no, they went out for dinner," Sherlock answered, having regained primary body functions before Greg had.

"Well, you'll just have to put the rest into Tupperware," she smiled as she placed the food on the kitchen table. She stepped back to look around the corner into the living room, "Come on, dears. Don't let the food get cold."

"Not hungry," Sherlock answered grumpily.

"Don't sulk," Mrs. Hudson answered without missing a beat and she disappeared into the kitchen, "I'll just make the table for you this once. I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock huffed in response, making to turn his back to the room, but he was stopped by one of Greg's hands on his knees. The man had a manic grin on his face.

Oh.

Sherlock sat up, what felt like faster than lightning and he swooned for a second. Greg put his hands firmly on the genius's shoulders to ground him and when he was satisfied with the result, leant forward to place one more kiss on his lips.

Just as Mrs. Hudson walked back in to look what was taking them so long.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and chuckled lightly, an amused smirk on her face.

"It's time for my soother," she said when she realised the two men were not going to break their kiss. They were like teenagers, so smitten and completely unaware of how many social conventions they were breaking by just continuing the snog in front of the landlady.

Then again, Sherlock never did stick to the rules.


	3. Don't panic  interlude

Daughter Knows Best – Interlude.

Sherlock turned in his bed to find the other end of it empty and cold. He sat up, shuffled his hands through his hair and left his bed, dressing quickly. He looked for his phone on the ground, it was likely to be there. He'd fallen into bed with Lestrade rather passionately, he remembered fondly. It wasn't there.

"John?"

He heard the doctor in the kitchen, so he shot through the door.

"Good morning," he found the man bent over the counter making tea.

"Looking for Lestrade?"

"No, he left early this morning, probably three or four. We slept for a few hours," Sherlock didn't tell John that he didn't know where the man had gone. From the bed he could see that Lestrade had left in a hurry, but he could not think of a reason.

That was days ago. Lestrade hadn't been there, Sherlock was not sure where the man had gone. He couldn't deduce it.

After a day of internal panic, he had gotten a case. Sherlock had dragged John out of the flat, Lestrade would surely be there. The man must've been busy, something exciting must be happening. Something big! He had jumped down the stairs, given Mrs. Hudson an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and run out.

"Dimmock!" he growled as John threw some money at the cabbie, "What are you doing here?"

"Covering for Lestrade," the DI answered, "he _implored_ me to give you this case. He said you could use one."

"Back on drugs, Freak?" he heard Donovan say from just within hearing distance.

Sherlock huffed and swept into the building, ignoring Anderson's protests. A triple homicide. Well, that would keep him busy.

"It's me."

Sherlock didn't answer, he breathed into the phone calmly, waiting for more. An excuse, a reason. He didn't want to sound desperate. He hadn't left the house after he'd come back from solving the triple homicide. He called Angelo for take-out the day after. Then he had abandoned his experiment on fungi growth on feet in favour of staring at his phone, willing it to ring. His mind raced, he was so sure he wouldn't be alone again.

Today, he had refused to dress, so he sat at the kitchen table, clad in a blanket from his bed. The one from the night Lestrade had left him. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"It's me, Sherlock. Get in the car."

"Fine," he murmured, "I'm coming."

He stood up and headed for the door. For a second he contemplated putting on his coat and scarf, but saw no point. If Lestrade kept him waiting for so long, he couldn't expect a perfectly styled consulting detective to be at his feet when he suddenly showed again.

Only when he had gone down the 17 steps to his flat did he realise he was still holding his mug. He was distracted and he scowled himself for it. He left the mug on the first step and pulled the blanket around him tighter before he stepped out without keys. He didn't expect to be back any time soon. Lestrade had some explaining to do.

He found a shining silver car in the gleaming sun an slid into the back seat. Lestrade was sitting in the front seat and didn't turn. They breathed in each other's smell.

"I must apologise," Lestrade started.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked, pulling the blanket tighter, feeling suddenly naked. He could smell her on him, he saw the skin around Lestrade's wedding band more irritated than usual and the bags under his eyes suggested he hadn't gotten more sleep than Sherlock. His hair was dull, unwashed. He must've experience stress in the past few days. Not just from being separated. "No, don't tell me. It's Sophie."

Lestrade looked up into the mirror, searching for Sherlock's eyes and meeting them, stone cold.

He got out of the car quickly. Sherlock sat up, squinting to look out of the window to follow the shape of the DI. What had he said? Something not good? He had only stated a fact.

The door opposite him opened and Lestrade slid into the seat next to him.

"She wants Lorna back," Lestrade mumbled as he placed a tentative hand on the bulge of fabric around Sherlock's shoulder, turning him to face him.

"You don't want her to," Sherlock stated.

"No, Sherlock. I don't," Lestrade said, "I can't trust her."

Sherlock slid forward, mindful that the blanket kept his knees covered and put a hand to Lestrade's neck.

"You can't."

Lestrade sighed and leant towards the genius, placing a kiss on his mouth.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He grabbed the lapels of Lestrade's suit jacket and pulled him close. He grew in a breath aggressively and pushed his lips back on the DI's mouth, pushing harshly. He blanket slid off his shoulders as he circled his armed around the DI to pull him into his lap.

Lestrade shifted to accommodate the strange position and found himself half straddling Sherlock, holding on tightly, kissing back as he put his arms on Sherlock's shoulders. One hand found his way into the genius's hair and he pulled gently on it.

They slowed down, Sherlock revelling the feel of Lestrade's tongue in his mouth, _finally._ Finally, he could smell him again, albeit with the foreign smell of his ex-wife clinging to him.

Lestrade leant back against the front seat and Sherlock followed him.

"Greg," he sighed.

The DI ran his cold hands along Sherlock's warm back. It felt like he'd just come out of bed. Smelled like that too. He tensed his arms again, pushing Sherlock's shoulders close.

"What do I do?"

"Your ex isn't interested in you," Sherlock wanted that clear.

"I am not in her," Lestrade said, surprised. Of course he wasn't, he was with Sherlock. He slept with the man.

"Good," Sherlock said. He sat back, trapping the DI's hands between his back and the seat. He laughed. Lestrade put his face in the crease of Sherlock's shoulder and simply sat there, tense with stress and worry.

"She won't be successful, she has alcohol problems," the consulting detective observed. Lestrade didn't have the energy to ask him how he knew.

Sherlock fiddled around a little and pulled the blanket from between them. He circled his lover with the blanket, hiding even his face from the world, borrowed safely in the warmth. He felt Lestrade relax minutely.

John looked out the window and saw a bundle of bright white on the backseat of Lestrade's grey car. Out of it stuck Sherlock's head, but through the two layers of glass he couldn't read his flatmate's expression.

At least Greg was back.


End file.
